


We'll All Go Together When We Go

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Dystopia, Episode AU: s02e16 Doomworld, FlashWave Week, Gen, M/M, mentions of off-screen torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-21 18:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: Doomworld takes some time to fix. Barry and Mick use that time to find each other.(written for Flashwave Week 2017)





	1. Doomworld

Mick helps Barry across the last section, which is starting to crumble; Barry takes the help, which he'd normally resist, with relief, hobbling straight over to where his bed is.

Mick follows.

"We're making progress," he says, as much for his own sake as for Barry's.

Barry smiles at him.

Barry always smiles at him, no matter how little Mick deserves it. And Mick doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve it at all when it's all his fault the world is this way.

"We are," Barry says. "We've scouted out the whole place." With a grunt, he moves his leg into an elevated position - the crushed leg, the one that makes sure he won't run anymore, the one that has left him in crutches.

The one that would heal after a month or two, except that the conditions of Barry's parole are that on the first of each month he has to show up in the public square in the middle of Central City to have it get crushed again, or else his friends in custody will be summarily executed. 

Eobard Thawne knows exactly how to gut a speedster. 

Mick's fault, of course. All of it. 

But still Barry helps him.

"It doesn't help to have scouted out the place if we don't have confirmation that Snart'll be there," Mick says, instead of thinking about it. Instead of thinking about _him_. About Snart, who was once Mick's best friend and partner. 

Snart, Captain Cold, the supervillain. 

Snart, brainwashed member of the Legion of Doom.

Snart, who owns half the city -

\- because the other half he still holds in trust for Mick.

Even after Mick joining the Resistance. Even after the jailbreaks, the property damage, the kidnappings of key personnel. Even after the rest of the Legion publically raged against Mick, and threatened to put him on the list of conscriptions - lists that would make Mick fair target for any man with a gun and an eye to be rich and powerful and in the favor of the rulers of the world. 

Even after everything. 

"He will," Barry says, and reaches up to take Mick's hand. His healing factor makes sure his fingers are always soft and gentle, no matter that he works as hard as the next man. "He'll be there tomorrow. I've received word."

Mick's back straightens. He's been with Barry most of the day, and he hadn't heard anything; that meant the Resistance had ordered him not to be told. That the Resistance still doesn't trust him not to be a spy for Snart. 

Makes sense. Snart is, after all, the Legion's spymaster.

Barry doesn't apologize for his part in keeping it from Mick, which he used to; instead, he just squeezes Mick's hand and intertwines their fingers. "They trust you," he says. "They're just being cautious."

Mick swallows down his hurt. It's the least he deserves. "I get it."

"You really don't," Barry says sadly. "This wasn't kept from you because they thought you'd give it up, Mick, I promise. It's your acting skills they don't trust, not your loyalty. You've proven the latter a thousand times over."

"My acting skills?" Mick asks, frowning. And then - "Scouting the building today. You think Snart's people were watching."

"I know they were," Barry says calmly. He's become quite a wartime general, ever since the conscriptions began and Doomworld gave up its pretense of being a utopia. 

Ever since the Spear was stolen. 

God, the Legion had been _furious_. They'd blamed the Resistance, of course; fear and paranoia at their brand new world being taken away making them decide to stop faking pleasantries. They guarded the spellbook with the instructions on how to use the Spear like dogs, and used only good old-fashioned oppression to change things now, instead of the fake smiles and magic-fueled PR pushes they'd used before.

It doesn't matter what defense they put up, though. The Resistance would throw everything it has in a gamble for that book -

\- if only they had the Spear themselves. Which they don't.

So it's war, then; war between them. Resistance and Legion; beaten down superheroes and all-powerful supervillains. 

"So I'm bait to lure Snart in, huh?" Mick asks. He squeezes Barry's fingers back, showing that he's not angry.

It's new, this thing between him and Barry. Brand new and still baby-soft; Mick's still not sure why or how they fell into it, only that he was hurting from having to leave Snart and Barry was hurting from losing so many of his people, and fighting at each other's sides was a recipe for letting that little spark between them grow into a full on flame. 

"Yeah," Barry says, and he still looks sad. 

"Didn't work the last few times," Mick reminds him. Snart's stopped running every time Mick's face appeared after the first few times; a visit from the Magician putting a quick end to that. 

At least that visit had confirmed Mick's claims that Snart was acting under brainwashing, or some other form of magical duress; the Legion rarely deployed their resident hypnotist for anything less than a Conversion, and Merlyn rarely agreed to leave his family compound in Starling – as much a prison for his non-compliant family as it was a home – for anything that could be handled by anyone less.

The Resistance had grudgingly agreed to stop trying to target Snart with their assassination attempts after that, to Mick’s relief – Snart was always the most vulnerable of the Legion, going on walks through the city without any guards at all, relying on his guns and his wits to save him. As if he didn't even really care about his stupid life at all. 

Fuck, but the Resistance hated full-on Conversions, more than anything else. It’s one thing if it’s Darhk’s little brainwashing tools, magically enchanted objects that needed only to be knocked off the relevant person to free them, or even Merlyn’s second-hand hypnotech, which they’d already invented a remedy for, but when Malcolm Merlyn, the Magician, personally Converts someone, they goddamn stay Converted. 

The fact that Snart retains as much personality as he does, honestly, is one of the reasons the Resistance had doubted his status as a Converted. 

Fuck, if only Mick had known, he would never have given the Legion the Spear. 

“It’ll work this time,” Barry says quietly.

Mick frowns at him, confused. 

“We took a break towards the middle,” Barry reminds him.

Sure they had. Mick remembers it; Barry had judged the area safe enough that they could stop to eat some of their provisions, and Mick had taken advantage of the moment of rest to press Barry against the wall and –

“Oh,” Mick says. 

“I’m sorry,” Barry says, and he means it, too; he clearly hates the idea of using this fragile new thing between them as a weapon. But this is Doomworld, and the Resistance uses everything and anything as a weapon, anything at all - why should this be different? “But Snart would know it if you were faking.”

Mick nods, his throat tight. Snart would know. But would Mick?

“It wasn’t my idea,” Barry says quickly. “It's not - I don't want you to think that was why this started. It was only after – after I reported it, as a new development, that it was suggested. I didn’t – I didn’t start this because of that. It wasn’t under false pretenses, Mick. I swear.”

Mick realizes then that he’s released his hold on Barry’s hand. “Right,” he says gruffly, and takes it again. Barry exhales with relief. “It's okay. I know you wouldn’t do that, Bright-eyes.”

Barry smiles at him and pulls Mick’s hand closer, pressing his dry lips against Mick’s knuckles. “Our people have offered a parley,” he tells Mick. “Snart comes with two of his own people that he trusts, no Legion, and you and me go in with a negotiator –” Probably Felicity. She was cold as ice, now, after Oliver's Conversion, and just as ruthless. She’d had to leave Starling after nearly being caught by Darhk’s death squads. It could have been Sara, but she was still in recovery from her last stint as _part_ of said squads. Besides, she didn't like working with Mick anymore. “And we talk.”

“What do you want to talk to him about?” Mick asks cautiously, the oldest wound he has from this wretched dystopia tearing at the seams. 

He shouldn’t have given the Legion the Spear, but he can’t regret Snart being alive. He can't be a party to an assassination, if that's what this is. 

“We think he’s found a way to resist Conversion,” Barry says. “It doesn’t matter how many times Merlyn visits, he’s never broken down all the way. He’s trapped in their rules, yes, but I think – we think – that he’s doing it because he doesn’t want to give away the fact that he can get out. If he does have a way to get out, it's a one-time play, and he hasn't played the card yet - or at least, we don't have any proof that he has.”

Mick nods. It makes a certain amount of sense; Snart claimed the Twin Cities for himself, Central and Keystone, and his rule has been far more kind than any of the rest of the Legion, which seems to think America is the center of the universe and the rest of the world merely there to supply it with whatever the Legion might want. Their armies abroad, led by Converted leaders, make sure that dissension remains minimal. 

Snart doesn’t have any Converted in his cities, other than of course himself. He claims he doesn’t need them – and sure enough, the police and City Hall listen to him for no other reason than the fact that he’s in charge. Ah, Central City - the world may change, but corruption in Central is as reliable as death and taxes. 

“We also want to know what he knows about the Spear,” Barry says. “He’s the Legion’s spymaster; if anyone would know about how their progress in finding it is going, he would.”

Mick nods. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Barry says, not without sympathy. 

Mick still flinches. So soon. He won’t have time to prepare himself – probably something the Resistance leaders had in mind when they picked the time. 

But that’s not Barry’s fault, so Mick still curls up next to Barry, careful not to jar his foot, and they sleep the sleep they can get. 

Mick’s too tired for dreams, which is the only reprieve he has. He misses Snart so much it hurts. 

The next day, they go – him and Barry and Felicity, as expected – to the abandoned warehouse they’ve seen Snart at before. It was one of his and Mick’s favorite safehouses, back in the day; Mick had been avoiding them, since Snart’s frantic manhunt for Mick is still technically in full swing, but Barry had been certain it was where they’d find Snart. Or Snart’s men, it seemed. 

“We have back-up outside,” Felicity tells them. “If Snart betrays us, we have a rescue team in place here, in place in transit, and another in place in the Compound. We'll be rescued, or we'll be eliminated; either way, the Legion won't find out what we know.” 

Mick and Barry nod. 

“He give his word that we'd be safe?” Mick asks.

Felicity looks at him, her gaze icy. She’d been nice to him at the start, but now she was one of the ones who refused to trust him. Losing Oliver had changed a lot. 

Barry still held out hope that rescuing him from his Conversion would help change some of it back. Mick wasn’t so sure, and that was even assuming there was anything of Oliver left. 

“Yes,” she says. 

“Then he won’t betray you,” Mick says.

“He might not have a choice,” she reminds him.

The Converted rarely did, when they ran into one of the orders implanted deep down by Malcolm Merlyn. It was sometimes very literally a do-or-die situation. 

“Ain’t the whole reason we’re here the fact that we think he can ignore that?” Mick shoots back, crossing his arms. “He won’t.”

Felicity presses her lips together, but inclines her head. She trusts Mick’s judgment, which makes her better to work with than some of his ex-crew on the Legends. 

Hell, most of the time _Mick_ doesn’t trust his own judgment.

But Snart won’t hurt Mick or see harm come to him. Mick’s sure of that. 

Snart just wants him _back_. 

They go to the meet early. 

Snart arrives right on time.

Alone.

“You were told you could bring two others,” Felicity says. She’s the only one sitting at the table; Mick and Barry are standing back in the shadows, tensed up. Mick’s got his heat gun, and Barry might not be able to run but he’s still got his speed and his arms, but Snart’s got an army of spies and informers and metas. 

“Didn’t feel like it,” Snart drawls, walking out into the light. He seems casual enough, nodding a greeting to Felicity, eyes scanning the room, right up until his eyes land on Mick.

Then he’s not casual at all.

Snart’s eyes are fixed on Mick like a man in the desert on seeing a glass of water. Like Mick’s everything he wants, everything he could ever want; that gaze is so tempting – _come back with me and be my partner_ , it cries, _and I will take care of you, my dearest friend, my oldest friend_ – that it makes Mick’s mouth go dry. 

If it wasn’t for the Legion, Mick would be at Snart’s side in a heartbeat. 

_Lenny…_

“Been a few months,” Mick offers guardedly.

“Heard you’ve been busy,” Snart says in return. His hands are twitching, his fingers rolling in and out, an unusually open sign of anxiety for him, but he doesn’t make any sudden moves. His eyes flicker to Barry, and Barry tenses, but Snart’s eyes are crinkled around the edges in a smile he’s not letting touch his lips.

Mick swallows again. He remembers how Snart always enjoyed Mick’s love affairs as much, if not more, than Mick did; Snart’s always been uninterested in either romance or sex for himself, but he watched Mick’s relationships like a soap opera he took personal interest in, living vicariously. Sometimes not so vicariously – he liked planning romantic gestures on Mick’s behalf, which tended to drive Mick’s partners nuts when they finally realized that Mick was about as romantic as half a brick. 

Some of them didn’t understand it, how Snart felt free to interfere in Mick’s life and Mick was fine with him doing it, and that sometimes ended it, but it didn’t matter. Snart was Mick’s partner. That was more important than any relationship. 

It had been, anyway.

Barry -

Mick's not sure of anything anymore. 

“We’re doing good,” Mick says, which is what Snart really wants to know. “I’m doing good. Sleeping fine. No breakdowns.”

Snart’s shoulders relax, even if his fingers are still flickering. 

That’s what he came here to find out. 

It hurts, sometimes, to know that Snart – brainwashed, Converted, _Legion_ – still loves Mick enough to worry about him like that. 

The Legion’s rage at his actions aside, Mick’s still not on any conscription list. The only one of the whole Resistance that isn’t, in fact, all but for Barry, who's only off of the list as long as he lets Eobard torment him, and really, that says everything it needs to. 

Snart still has enough influence in the Legion to keep that from happening.

“We’ve made our gesture of good faith,” Felicity says crisply, meaning Mick. “Are you willing to negotiate?”

“You’re happy?” Snart asks Mick, ignoring her. 

Mick considers the question. No, of course he’s not happy – his partner is evil, his lover is crippled anew every month, his world is in shambles, and he’s part of a rag-tag Resistance that can barely keep the dictators of the world from murdering everybody. 

But it’s better than it had been when he was still pretending the world the same, hiding by Snart’s side and pulling meaningless heists against police that wouldn’t fight back. 

“Could be better,” Mick finally says. 

“Mr. Snart,” Felicity says sharply. “Are you willing to negotiate? Or should we go now?”

Snart’s eyes flicker to her briefly at that last. He doesn’t want them to go, that much is clear. He wants them to stay, stay with him. He’d made his appeal clear the last time they’d met, months ago – Mick by his side, nothing more, and in return Mick could have anything he’s ever wanted; any lover, any experience, anything. 

Mick’s sure that if Snart could, he’d extend the offer to cover Barry as well. 

If Mick thought Barry would take it, that relief from his endless agony, he might even consider it. 

But no. Barry turns himself over to Eobard’s mercies once a month, every month, and Eobard only lets him go because the joy of having Barry submit voluntarily to his own torture and mutilation outweighs every other reasonable concern. Barry’s been doing that since the beginning, even before Eobard had Iris and Joe to hold over his head, just to keep Eobard from killing innocents. He wouldn't stop now. 

Barry would never take the deal.

And so, with sadness, Mick can’t, either.

“I got you something,” Snart says. He’s still talking only to Mick. His hands are still twitching. “You and Scarlet. A gift.”

Snart’s presents have always been wonderful things, and Doomworld has only made him capable of doing everything his imagination wanted. He’s burned cities for Mick’s pleasure; he’s commuted sentences for Resistance members over the complaints of the remainder of the Legion; he’s even, in a quiet moment, build a small set of graves on an obscure bit of farmland outside of Keystone.

Mick’s heart can’t take too many more of these gifts. 

“Snart,” he starts, intending on refusing, but Snart’s holding up his hand. 

“It’s a gift, Mick,” Snart says, his voice soft. “Please take it.”

Mick never could tell Snart no when he said please. 

Mick inclines his head in consent. His throat is too tight to speak. 

“Mr. Snart –” Felicity starts.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Snart snarls, his face jerking out of its momentary calm for only a second before he smooths it down, but it says everything that he broke, even for a second. This is as hard for him as it is for Mick. 

Mick feels Barry’s hand slip into his. 

“What’s the present?” Barry asks, because Mick can’t talk right now.

Snart goes to the wall, where Mick vaguely remembers there being a closet once, and pulls it open, some trick of shifting drywall and creaking masonry. 

“What is it?” Mick finally asks, speaking through the thickness in his throat. He can’t imagine what he could possibly want that would fit into a closet – he’s always valued experiences and people more than he did things. 

Snart pauses before he opens the now-uncovered closet door. 

“The only thing I could think of that would make you come back to me,” he says. 

Mick swallows, hard, and Felicity and Barry tense up. Mick’d known that Snart would never give up on that, never, but he’d thought – Snart had come alone, without any guards – if this is a trap –

“It’s not a trap,” Snart says, because he can still read Mick like an open book. “It’s a gift.”

“I can’t come back,” Mick says, despairing, and it’s only Barry’s hand in his that keeps him from hiding his face in his hands. “You know I can’t, Lenny. I can’t join the Legion. Not even for you.”

Snart closes his eyes, a brief moment of pain. “Yeah, I know,” he says, his voice rough. “S’why I got you this.”

And Mick doesn’t know what it could possibly be that Snart thinks would do what thirty years of partnership can’t, that fires and freedoms and anything Mick has ever wanted can’t; thinks to himself for a wild moment that Snart’s lost it at last, that he thinks some gift would be worth more to Mick than Snart himself; thinks that –

Mick thinks that right up until the moment that Snart turns, and in his hands is the Spear.

“The Spear of Destiny,” Felicity breathes, her eyes wide and fixed on the instrument that shaped all of their fates. “You found it!”

“It was never lost,” Mick says through numb lips, staring at Snart. Staring at Len. His Len, his partner. The _thief_. “You stole it. You stole it from them, from the Legion. And then you hid it away and never let them know.”

Snart nods. “They were going to make more changes,” he says, his hands curling around the Spear, his fingers still twitching. “That, or destroy the Spear and make all the changes permanent. As long as this was still around, there was a chance of changing.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about it sooner?” Barry asks, his eyes wide with wonder. 

“Couldn’t,” Snart says. “Merlyn questioned me. Was all I could do not to answer.”

Conversion, he means; this is the first confirmation they’ve had from Snart’s lips that Merlyn was the one who handled him, that he _had_ been brainwashed, that he had resisted. That he’d found a way out.

“You were Converted,” Felicity says, her eyes sharp, but her fingers are twitching. If Snart could escape a Conversion, then maybe, one day, so could Oliver. “You resisted.”

“I escaped,” Snart corrects her. “It took some time to throw it off. Only managed to get out of the last parts of it a few weeks back.”

The manhunt for Mick had been massively escalated twenty days ago. 

“How?” Felicity demands.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Snart says. “It involves a bit of brain damage.”

Mick takes an automatic step forward, horror welling in his gut at the thought of Snart damaging that beautiful brain of his; his _partner_ damaged, hurt – 

“It’s fine,” Snart says, though his eyes have gone soft in the way they only do around Mick or Lisa. His fingers dance on the Spear. “I figured that soon enough, it won’t matter.”

“We don’t have the book of spells,” Barry says, though his voice is filled with longing. A world with his friends back at his side, a world where Eobard met the bad end he deserves, where Darhk is dead at Oliver Queen's hands, where Merlyn is a pathetic has-been – a world with no pain, no death, the world they _should_ have had. The world that was stolen from them by the Spear. 

“We can get it,” Felicity says, her eyes afire with possibilities. “We have plans – we could –”

“You don’t need to,” Mick says. He knows his partner.

Sure enough, Snart is smirking. 

“Wouldn’t be much of a gift, would it,” Snart drawls, and pulls a sheet of paper out of his pocket, “if I didn’t bring the owner’s manual.”

He takes a step forward, then another, then another, until he’s right in front of Barry and Mick. 

“Thanks for taking care of him for me,” he says to Barry, reaching out and taking Barry’s hand, wrapping it around the spear. 

Barry nods quietly, his eyes glistening with tears. 

“Don’t forget about that when you’re back in your good old world. I’m counting on you,” Snart warns, and that’s when Mick realizes that Snart doesn’t think he’ll be around, in the world they’re going to make, him and Barry; Snart thinks they’re going to go back to the world the way it used to be, with him dead and gone.

And he’s giving them the Spear anyway.

“No,” Mick says. “No, Lenny – we’ll find a way –”

Snart reaches out and catches Mick’s hand. 

Mick falls silent.

Snart wraps it around Barry’s, both of their hands on the Spear. 

“Good luck,” Snart says. “Partner.”

And he steps back, the piece of paper in his hands, and he’s reading the words out loud, and the Spear’s started to glow a bright white light.

Felicity’s face is shocked – she didn’t expect it to happen so quickly –

Neither did Barry, nor Mick –

But the light is between them, in Barry’s hands and Mick’s, and it’s up to them, now.

This time, Mick’s not going to let anyone down: not Snart, not Barry, not anyone. 

This time, they’re going to save the world.


	2. Meet Cute

“Going my way, stranger?” a light voice asks. 

Mick looks up.

Barry.

_Barry._

Leaning on the side of the stupid SUV Mick’s sitting in, waiting for Snart to come back with the goods so Mick can drive them away before the cops come and get them.

…assuming that Snart is, in fact, going after the goods.

Barry isn’t even in costume.

“Did Snart set up this heist as a _blind date_?” Mick asks, vaguely despairing because that is _one hundred percent_ Leonard fucking Snart all over.

Barry grins at him, that big beautiful smile that Mick fell in love with in the middle of a hellscape dystopia, for the first time unshadowed by pain and loss and hurt, and Mick falls just a little in love all over again looking at how bright it is. 

“He told me to tell you he’d parked his bike on the other side of the building in advance, not to worry about him, and that you should take me for ice cream,” Barry says. “Can I jump in?”

Mick grumbles but reaches over to push open the door in quiet agreement.

He still checks his phone, of course – the Flash is nominally the sworn enemy of the Rogues, as Snart’s started calling them – but sure enough, there’s a message in all caps, “GET OVER URSELF ALREADY!!! B877.”

The last bit is code for which safehouse Snart’s planning on being at, and when, to make sure that their phones don’t get cloned or copied or spoofed into sending messages that are meant to lure them into traps. They used to insist on speaking with each other, but in the brand new era of voice patterners, text is just as good at conveying messages as anything else.

Felicity has informed them that she hates them both personally and that she will crack their code one day.

Mick doesn’t have the heart to tell her that there is no code; they just know each other well enough to be able to figure out where and when based on how long a keysmash is involved.

Barry clambers into the car seat next to Mick, moving at regular speed. 

“You know you don’t need to slow down for me,” Mick says, starting up the car. 

“I’m in civvies,” Barry says with a shrug. “And you’ve always been on me to keep the division clearer.”

Mick can’t help but smile a bit at that. It was one of the things they’d discussed in Doomworld, curled up with each other in the dark; how Barry was letting Flash things slip into his life and visa versa, and how that was going to drive him nuts in the end. Mick’s always been good at compartmentalizing when he needs to. 

But that was then, and there, and this is now.

Doomworld is a fading memory in most people’s minds, if not entirely gone already; even Felicity, who they made sure remembered everything, has put most of it behind her and moved on. Mick knows that Ramon and Snow, Resistance members and Barry’s best friends, either requested the forgetfulness cure or simply moved straight into denial; as far as he knows, they’ve never mentioned it, not once.

The Legends – 

The Legends kept their memories, but chose to forget nearly everything about it - other than Mick’s betrayal, that is.

There’s a reason he’s not with them now.

That _they’re_ not with them now.

Him and Snart. 

Because of course Barry agreed, whole-heartedly, to bring Snart back from his death at the Oculus, to give him the memories of Doomworld in addition to the ones he had of his time with the Legends. When they’d woken back up at home, in a booth in the back of Saints and Sinners, Snart had been shell-shocked and horrified and shaking. 

Mick wrapped his arms around him, stares of other customers be damned, and he hadn’t let go for a good, long while. 

It’d helped a bit, helped both of them, but still, Snart stayed that way, shaky and unbalanced, for far longer than either of them would like.

Mick abandoned any immediate plans to go find Barry to take care of his best friend, to comfort him and find comfort in his presence, to assure him that the brain damage he’d wrought upon himself wasn’t permanent and hadn't persisted past the end of Doomworld – turns out Snart had gone after the involuntary portions of his brain to carve out the last awful bits of Conversion, the subconscious parts of it, inflicted upon himself nightmares and slowness of mind and ruined the steadiness of his hands, his most highly valued possession, the flickers of movement in his fingers that Mick had seen but misread as anxiety. 

Snart, in Doomworld, hadn’t even known that this wasn’t the first time he’d given up his hands for Mick, but Mick knew, and the recovered version of Snart knew, too, but even with all that he still wanted Mick by his side. 

By the time that Snart was finally calm again, Mick had time to remember that Barry had Iris back now.

So he’d stayed away, stayed back. 

He’d given Barry space.

He and Snart, they’d gone back the way they used to be – heists and arsons and fun stuff like that, easy jobs to help get them back in the groove, get them working together in sync the way they always have. They’d gone to see Lisa, who’d cried and kissed them both, and they’d picked up some shiny new paintings for their walls – but they hadn’t gone back to supervillainy, because Mick wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw Barry and nothing had changed.

If they were nothing more than enemies again. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, after letting Mick dawdle a bit, Snart had decided to take things into his own hands.

The man simply _could not_ resist interfering in Mick’s love life. 

“He really suggested ice cream?” Mick asks Barry, who grins. “Of course he did.”

“He couldn’t resist the possibility of a cold joke, I think,” Barry says. “It doesn’t have to be ice cream.”

“Pizza? With all those weird toppings you like?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Barry says, and his smile is brighter than ever.

They drive in silence for a few minutes. 

And then –

“How’s it –” “Is he –” 

They speak at the same time, then they both laugh.

“You first,” Mick grunts. 

“Is Snart doing okay?” Barry asks. “He seemed fine when I spoke with him. Maybe a bit anxious.”

“His anxiety’s been playing up,” Mick acknowledges. “Think he’s getting better, though.”

He told Barry all about Snart’s issues when they’d been together in Doomworld: the anxiety disorder, the PTSD, the old injuries, the weak spots. He felt like a traitor even when he’d done it, but he’d had no choice. Snart was Legion; Snart _was_ the enemy, and he couldn’t hold anything back. 

Snart forgave him for that too, once they were back. 

Mick still doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but Snart cut the legs out from under any protest he could’ve made right off the bat, telling him that Mick wasn’t allowed to take away Snart’s decisions on what to forgive when he was trying to apologize for violating his privacy. 

Even Mick had to concede the logic there. 

He’d at least managed to turn it back around on Snart when Snart had started apologizing to _him_ about the whole Kronos/Time Masters business. That was something. 

Not often he gets one over on Snart like that. His partner sulked flamboyantly for the rest of the evening, a sure-fire sign he wasn't actually upset at how things had fallen out. 

“Good to hear that,” Barry says. 

“The heists have been helping,” Mick adds, unable to keep from teasing a little.

Barry rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me that,” he laughs. “I’m still technically supposed to be _stopping_ you, not tacitly endorsing therapy-by-heist.” 

“Well, this one was clearly a bust,” Mick says dryly. “Since he didn’t even try to steal nothing. I’d _wondered_ why he made me stay in the car…”

“Knowing Snart, he probably did steal something,” Barry points out, which Mick concedes with a grin. “But hopefully, even if he didn't, this evening's not _entirely_ a bust...?”

“I did pick you up,” Mick agrees, though cautiously. 

His heart gives a little throb of joy when Barry nods in agreement. 

“What were you going to say?” Barry asks, after a moment of pleasant silence. “Earlier?”

Ah, yes.

Mick’s never been one for refusing to face the fire, and putting off pain only makes it hurt more.

So he’s going to ask, even if he doesn’t want to hear the answer. 

“How’s it going, being back to your old life?” Mick asks. “The Flash, the CSI…Iris.”

Barry winces a little, even though he must’ve known it was coming. “Iris is good,” he says, answering the part of the question that Mick really cares about. “We’re…not engaged anymore.”

Mick’s eyebrows go up in silent question.

“Eobard brought Eddie Thawne back in Doomworld,” Barry says. “They were trapped together in the Compound. They talked a lot while they were Eobard's prisoners.”

Eddie Thawne, Eddie Thawne, Eddie – oh.

“Her old fiancé? The one that died?”

“Sacrificed himself so that Eobard - Eobard Thawne - would never be born,” Barry corrects quietly. “He’s a good guy. Even I like him.”

“Even though he stole your girl?”

“Iris’ nobody’s girl,” Barry says, and that smile peeks through again, warm and fond. Iris is Barry’s the way Snart is Mick’s; Mick’s always known that. He’d just thought those two kids had taken that step further, the one Snart and Mick were never going to take, the one where they’d wear rings on their fingers that proclaimed the fact that they were one unit and kissed in a way that said the same. But maybe - maybe not. “She’s her own girl. But – yeah. She needed some time to process, after Doomworld –”

Iris was one of the ones who chose to keep her memory. Mick’s not surprised. Journalist like that – no surprise she preferred knowledge over ignorance. 

“– and in the end, well. Eddie and I both said she could do whatever she liked, and that neither of us would hold her to any promises made, but she was struggling. Iris never gives up on a promise, _never_ , but this wasn’t really a situation she was expecting, y’know?”

“So you backed off,” Mick says. Always the hero, his Barry. 

“I told her about you,” Barry says, surprising Mick. “It didn’t make the decision for her, but it helped, knowing that I had someone. That I wasn’t stepping back just to make _her_ happy – I’m so incredibly done making Iris West’s decisions for her, she’s made it clear how she feels about that – but that I was stepping back for _me_ , too. Because she isn’t the only person who could make me happy, the way she is for Eddie.”

Mick’s throat’s feeling all tight and scratchy again. He hates that feeling, but honestly, he’s starting to get used to it. 

“I see,” he manages to get out. 

“If you’re still interested, of course,” Barry adds.

“Are you _nuts_?” Mick exclaims. “Of _course_ I’m still –”

Barry’s laughing.

“You set me up for that,” Mick says accusingly, but he’s smiling, now, Smiling free and clear, a weight off his chest - off his life. Things look brighter, somehow, less clouded. 

“You bet I did,” Barry says, smug and cheerful. “I admit, I was a bit worried at first – you’re a supervillain, I’m a superhero, this isn’t _actually_ a comic book despite any similarities we may or may not have to it, and you were back doing your thing with Snart –”

“Me and Snart – we’re not –”

“I know, I know. I believe you, trust me. I get having friends that are closer than family. I just wasn’t sure if I’d – I don’t know. Clutter up your life, I guess.”

“Never,” Mick says. “You only add to it.”

Barry’s cheeks go just the slightest bit pink and he has to duck his head a bit. “Yeah, well. I’m insecure, I guess. Anyway, so while I was moping around feeling sorry for myself, Snart kidnapped me –”

“He did _what_?”

“I think that’s just how he says hi,” Barry says. “Not gonna lie.”

Barry’s – not necessarily wrong, actually. 

Goddamn Snart. He’d been a supervillain long before there were words for it.

(Had he kidnapped any of Mick’s exes before this? That would explain _so much_ about why Alex socked Mick in the face during their break-up…)

Luckily, Barry doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Anyway, he gave me a shovel talk and a pep talk –”

“All in one speech?”

“I was impressed, too,” Barry assures Mick. “Anyway, he told me the plan for today, said we ought to get our acts together, forget the bullshit and just let ourselves be happy. When I brought up the whole supervillain-superhero thing, he told me that we needed to remember that we weren’t bound by the, and I quote, ‘tawdry conventions of comic book lit where everything’s an excuse for more drama’.” 

Mick sniggers. Sounds like Snart. 

“So, uh, yeah. I figured…why not?”

“I’m glad you did,” Mick says.

Barry beams at him. 

Mick pulls the car into the parking spot at the best pizza places he knows, then turns and puts his hand on Barry’s cheek.

“I’m real glad you did,” he says again, and pulls Barry in close, wrapping his arms around him the way he’s wanted to ever since Doomworld was destroyed in a bright explosion of the Spear's light. 

And this time, he can _feel_ Barry’s blush.


	3. Mythology

Stories, Len has found, are how mankind makes sense of the universe.

Call it mythology, legend, faith, _novel_ , it doesn’t matter. 

If you’re lost and alone and afraid, the first thing you do is come up with a story. An explanation, a justification, even nothing more than a distraction – but a story.

Len’s had a lot of time to think of stories of late, and of his role in them.

There’s a million stories in every second, a million roles – but not all of them fit. Some don’t fit you, some don’t fit your circumstances, and some fit once but you’ve outgrown them.

Option One: The White Knight. Not exactly a role Len’s comfortable with, to be sure, but once he could see it – he who was misled and abandoned to the cruelties of fate, rushing back with the surety of justice at his side, rescuing he whom he loves most from those that torment him. 

But that story doesn’t fit, because the person being rescued is supposed to be goddamn _grateful_ about it, happy to be home, happy to be together again, happy to be free of his chains. He isn’t supposed to run away to try to rescue them.

He isn’t supposed to run _away_. 

Option Two: The Villain. Hungry and selfish and proud, a villain amongst his own black-hearted kind. Going to rule the world one day, and reap the benefits of power. It’s a story someone else could fill, and several someones that Len can think of already have.

That doesn’t fit Len either. Len hates torture, hates pain, hates oppression; he even hates power, the bureaucracy and the boredom of it. All he’s ever wanted was his freedom. All he’s ever wanted –

The only thing he’s ever wanted were people, and those people want nothing to do with him.

_It’s supposed to be you and me against the world; not me and the world against you!_

Option Three: the Trickster. Now that’s a role Len was born to play – the knife in the back that you don’t know is coming, player of the long game, the cunning scheme, the questioner, he who disrupts. Len’s played that role before, and he’ll play it again if he can.

But he’s not playing it now. 

Sure, he’s got a few games in mind, a few schemes, but it all means nothing, ashes and dust in his hands, because the victory has gone away without him.

Besides, the Trickster is best used as an ally – and who in their right mind would ally him now?

Option Four: The Fool.

Ah, yes, the fool.

He who thought he knew what he was doing.

He who thought he could handle himself the way he always has. 

He who never realized he was underwater, played by deeper games than he, surrounded by villains to whose depths he will never plunge. 

Yes, the Fool might fit. 

“Are you even listening?” Darhk snaps at him.

“Why listen when you’re talking?” Len replies automatically. “I can just read the prepared notes and learn the same thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He means you’re a boring old fart that’s too stuck in his ways to ever ad-lib anything,” Merlyn drawls. 

“Didn’t think he was supposed to be back-talking so much anymore,” Eobard says, shooting Len a glare of his own. “Found the Spear yet, _spymaster_?”

Terrible stabbing pains in Len’s head. 

Not as bad as what his dad used to do, when Len was smaller and far less hard-hearted than he is now.

“If I had found it,” Len drawls, nice and slow and disdainful, “do you think we’d be sitting around here in a conference room?”

A question, rhetorical, meaning nothing. Not a lie; that’s important. The Conversion hates lies.

“I still say entrusting a _thief_ with a retrieval mission seems like a mistake,” Darhk says.

Len doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my Conversion?” Merlyn asks, his voice nearly as cold as Len can get. 

“No,” Darhk says.

“Because if you want to go back to that magical brainwashing that breaks so easily, I’m more than happy to retract my services –”

“That’s not necessary,” Eobard interjects before Darhk and Merlyn can get into another fight. Merlyn hates leaving his home – he doesn’t trust his family not to do something stupid in an attempt to get out – and Darhk hates the fact that only Merlyn’s Conversions are sufficient to really establish loyalty.

Oliver Queen’s silent, vacant-eyed presence at Merlyn’s shoulder is a sign of that. 

“Perhaps we should move on to the mining of additional ore from Nanda Parbat,” Darhk is saying, giving Merlyn a scathing look. “The destruction of the Lazarus pits cannot be complete.”

“Agreed,” Merlyn says, returning the look.

“Why don’t you guys do that,” Len drawls. “In that case, you won’t need lil old me, since I don’t give a damn about magic.”

Or living forever, for that matter.

“Yes, yes,” Eobard says, waving a hand. “You can go. And give us an update as soon as you hear something new about the Spear!”

“Of course,” Len agrees, ignoring the pounding in his brain. The Conversion loves orders, loves obeying; submission feels good, resistance bad. It’s a pretty straightforward brainwashing system. 

In this case, Len reminds himself that there’s just no updates to give.

The headache quietens. 

Not his fault no one’s uncovered the Spear from where Len’s hidden it away. 

Len’s dancing a fine line with what he’s doing, but he refuses – he _refuses_ – to be as mindless a Convert as the rest of them. Ever since he found out what they did to him…

Oh, yes. Len’s very much the Fool here. 

Stupid to ever get involved with the assholes in the Legion. 

But he’s not going to be stupid enough to let them catch Mick.

He goes back to his office.

“I want an update,” he says. He’s got plenty of underlings, now. He hates most of them. 

“Nothing new on the Spear,” Rosa Dillon drawls. Her lover, Scudder, is in the Compound, awaiting Conversion that is delayed only by Len’s insistence that he needs information Scudder has, a lie if there ever was one; she hates everyone and everything very nearly as much as Len does, and that makes them work well together. 

She doesn’t know for sure if Len’s done anything with the Spear, but she knew him before. That’s enough to make her voice go sarcastic. 

“What a surprise,” Len replies bitingly. “Priority 2?”

He means priority one, of course, but appearances must be kept. 

“Mick Rory’s doing fine,” she says, a little more sympathy creeping into her voice. 

Len doesn’t bother hiding his exhale of relief. Not anymore. 

Mick’s joined up with the Resistance, but they don’t trust him, they don’t value him; there’s always the risk of sacrifice. 

It’s a sacrifice that Len will not let them make. 

“Any more specific updates?” he asks.

Rose shrugs. “The Resistance’s newest movements are on your desk. Nothing too big – mostly spreading Better World stories.”

Ah, the Better World; the idea that this world is wrong, and that they all lived in a different world once, a world with superheroes and people who tried to do the right thing.

A world Len knows very well exists – or at least existed. 

Funny how these things turn into mythology so quickly.

Humanity and its stories.

“- and it looks like Rory’s shacked up with him for good, now –”

“Hold up,” Len says. “What’s this about Mick shacking up with someone?”

“Thought that’d get your attention back,” Rosa says with a smirk. “He’s hooked with Eobard’s favorite target practice.”

“Barry Allen,” Len says. The name sits strangely on his tongue. He doesn’t remember him, never knew him, only ever met the Flash, but he knows now what he never had a chance to learn then. Or maybe he did learn it, in that blanked-out future that he never had and that led Mick so far beyond his reach, that future they shared and that Len doesn't remember.

Barry Allen. 

Not really Mick’s usual type, from what he remembers; but then again, what does Len know? He knew Allen only briefly, as a hero with a bleeding heart, easily distracted and fawn-new at his chosen career. Maybe Mick likes that, now, or maybe Barry Allen’s grown up a little.

He wonders what story Barry Allen, hero and Flash, is living now.

He wonders, perhaps, if Mick is happy now.

Away from Len’s side, where he belongs –

But happy.

Some things in life are a tradeoff. 

“Some people are questioning it,” Rosa says. “Questioning Allen. Rory’s role by your side doesn’t make him too popular with the common folk, and that’s bringing Allen down.”

Len hums and nods. “Start spreading counter-narrative,” he instructs. “Some romantic thing where Mick gave up everything for love.”

“That won’t help you find him,” she observes. 

“I’ll worry about finding Mick when I need him,” Len says, and dismisses her. 

Barry Allen.

Maybe he’s the quiet hand that’s been supporting Mick in his time with the Resistance, ignoring the accusations of the Legends that Mick rescued and the suspicions of his allies. Maybe he’s been helping keep Mick safe.

Mick could use a hand to guide him. A shoulder to support him. 

Someone he can help, and who he will accept help from in return.

If it can’t be Len, well, why not Barry Allen?

Maybe this hero will live up to the billing. 

But Barry Allen, he’s also the one Eobard has it out for, the one he torments every month; a living symbol of the Resistance, yes, but one slowly cracking under the strain.

Mick can help with that.

Maybe that’s how they met.

(Is Len jealous? He considers this question, as he always does when Mick finds an new love, but no; his instincts remain the same. His concern is for Mick as a friend and partner; he does not want to have him himself in any romantic sense. He wants him to be _safe_ and _happy_ , and he wants whoever Mick is with to respect Mick as much as he deserves.)

Len doesn’t have any power to interfere with Eobard’s punishments for Barry.

Maybe there’s something else he can do.

There’s one thing he _knows_ he can do.

Len contemplates the high-tech laser that’s been sitting on his desk as a useless paperweight for the last few days. He’s been too scared to use it – his mind’s the only thing he’s got left, and even that’s already been affected by Conversion. 

His brain hurts to even think about defying Conversion, but his scientists assure him that the machine will work as intended, carve out what needs to be carved out – and what’s a little brain damage between friends?

He’ll probably lose his hands, damaging his fine motor control. He might lose his quickness of thought, aphasia and interrupted thought and executive dysfunction.

Mick needs to be in safe hands before Len can risk it.

Allen might be those hands. 

Maybe.

He can’t be sure, though. Not yet. 

Something to keep an eye on.

Len closes his eyes.

Falling asleep is easier than it’s ever been before. 

“ _This isn’t the story you were meant to have_ ,” the man all in white, with the shining point of infinity in his eyes and the green stone upon his chest, says to Len. 

“I know,” Len says. “I’m working on it. I need to know the right time.”

“ _There will never be a right time_.”

“Either step up and take action,” Len says crossly, “or leave it to me like you said you would.”

“ _You are the author here_ ,” the man agrees. “ _You are the music maker_.”

“The dreamer of dreams,” Len agrees. 

And then he wakes up.

_World-losers and world-forsakers, on whom the pale moon gleams, yet we are the movers and shakers of the world for ever, it seems._

World-forsaker - yeah that sounds right, but not yet. 

Not yet.

Soon enough, though, Len thinks to himself. Soon enough.

The next time he sees the man in white, he’s asleep in his own bed, Mick curled up beside him as warmth and security both, the world restored. 

“ _Well done_ ,” the man says, the Spear in his hands as promised; his reward for keeping Len's mind intact from Conversion and his duty pursuant to their agreement. He'll take it away and hide it amongst dreams so that anyone trying what the Legion tried will have a hell of a time to find it.

Len's good with that.

“I’m not done yet,” Len says, and thinks about the sort of stories you can tell, of a supervillain and a superhero, the sort of narrative that will make people accept it as a fact of existence, that will make people root for it; something that will make the tabloids cheer and the more solemn newspapers speak glowingly.

Len’s time in Doomworld learning PR isn’t going to go entirely to waste.

After all, there might be some people who don't think superheroes ought to be with supervillains. People who might criticize, who might judge, who might pressure - people who might be inclined to interfere. 

If Mick wants Barry, and Barry wants Mick, then Len’s certainly not going to let some story get in the way.

Not while he’s here to tell another.


	4. Domestic

"Beep! It's six forty five! Time to wake up!"

"Noooooo," Barry moans.

"Beep! Six forty six! Time to wake up!"

"Miiiiick," Barry says, burying his face in his boyfriend's arm. "Make him stop."

Mick huffs into semi-awareness. "Lenny," he says groggily. "Stop harassing my boyfriend."

That gives Barry a happy feeling in his stomach. Mick isn't always one to give a name to what they have, much less one as undignified as boyfriend.

That happy feeling makes him crack his eyes open, hoping maybe to see his boyfriend (now official!) and possibly reward his heroic gesture with a kiss.

This is a tactical error.

A fully dressed Snart stands by the bed, grinning a positively wicked smile. 

They're not even in Mick's apartment, where Snart at least lives right upstairs and had a spare key. They're in _Barry's_ apartment, which is in a totally different neighborhood, in a walk-up, and had been _locked up for the night_. 

Not that little things like locked doors ever stopped Leonard goddamn Snart. 

"Scarlet, you told me to make sure you were late," he says, grin getting even wider. "The words 'whatever it takes' were used."

"I take it back," Barry says, even though he vaguely recalls some reason he needed to be at work early this week. He does _not_ trust that expression on the face of Leonard Snart, former world-controlling dictator, current supervillain, thief and all-around havoc on everybody's nerves. "I retract."

"Too late," Snart says, and pulls out the cold gun.

"I hate yooooooooou!"

But Barry's up and at 'em soon enough, and Snart is nice enough to give him a ride into work while Barry chomps on his breakfast (leftovers from breakfast-for-dinner they had last night - god, Mick's such a good cook), which Barry only realizes is weird when they walk into the CCPD still side-by-side.

"Bear," Joe says. "What is he doing here?"

Barry blinks, then turns to squint at Snart, whose smirk is positively cheery. "I'm not actually sure," he admits. "I think he followed me here. I'm not sure why."

"I thought you were dating the _other_ one," Joe grumbles.

"I am," Barry says. "They're just, y'know, kind of a package deal. Hey, Snart? What're you doing here?"

"I'm taking Iris out for breakfast," Snart responds with a beaming smile. "She's meeting me here - ah, there she is!"

He sweeps away.

Joe's expression looks like a cat being strangled. 

Barry munches on his last piece of French toast. 

"Bear," Joe says. 

"She's married to Eddie," Barry reminds him.

"Barry."

"She wouldn't cheat on him at all, and even if she did, she wouldn't be so obvious about it."

"Barry!"

"Besides, Snart doesn't do romantic relationships," Barry says. Or sex, which is what Joe really cares about, but Barry's not going to malign Snart's scary reputation by pointing it out. People are weird.

He goes to work, wondering what it is he's forgetting.

Mick comes around noon with a box of lunch that smells so good it has half the precinct eyeing them like hungry hawks, as opposed to how they usually look when Mick or Snart's around - angry, bitter, cheated. 

Not that they can do anything - with their state records wiped and a federal pardon in hand for helping fight the aliens, even with their occasional acts of supervillainy, both of them are clean enough to run for mayor.

Not that that says much, in Central.

"How's your day going?" Mick asks, pulling out lunch.

"Busy," Barry admits. Ever since he's been making an effort not to super-speed through his work - one terrible evening feverishly trying to re-learn all the work he did in preparation for a trial is more than enough for him - his days have gone back to being pleasantly full.

And, hey, if he sometimes speeds through the boring stuff, no one can blame him. 

"Do you remember why I asked Snart to wake me up this morning?" Barry asks, remembering. "I've totally forgotten."

"No clue," Mick says. 

"Do you know why he's meeting with Iris?"

"Something about her newspaper," Mick says. "And, uh, y'know."

That 'y'know' meant Doomworld. 

"I don't want to know," Barry decides. 

"We still on for movies this afternoon?" Mick asks. "Cisco said he was covering for your, uh, run."

"Oh, yeah!" Barry says, brightening. "Definitely. I've been wanting to see this one for a while."

"Good," Mick says, and then he lapses quiet while Barry talks about his day so far. Mick prefers listening, generally, to talking; his words don't always come easy, as he puts it, and he's learned to pick them carefully as a result. 

It's a very nice lunch. Afterwards, Barry auctions off the rest of the cupcakes Mick brought to the department - highest bidder among the science department takes a boring assignment off Barry's plate, highest among the detectives promises to pick Barry for the next interesting crime scene, and two cupcakes reserved special for Captain Singh for looking the other way, because, well, this _is_ Central ("Triple chocolate caramel?" Singh groans. "Is he trying to make us all fat? Is that the latest supervillain scheme? You’d tell me if it was, right, Allen?") - and goes back to work. 

"Planning on making out with your arsonist in public this afternoon?" Julian snipes. 

Barry rolls his eyes at him.

He's just jealous that Barry's love life is infinitely more interesting that his own. 

It's a good day, and Barry even manages to finish up all his open projects before heading out to meet Mick at the movies. He's only a little late, like twenty minutes, but they're still doing previews, so it's practically like he wasn't late at all. 

Also, Mick got him three extra-large buckets of popcorn. 

Best boyfriend _ever_. 

They do end up making out in the back row, but only through the boring bits. Barry feels qualified to discuss it tomorrow. Loudly, and with specific references to scenes. Take _that_ , Julian.

And then he gets home and his apartment's empty. 

"What," Barry says.

"Who took all your stuff?" Mick asks, alarmed. "Should I -"

"Wait," Barry says. 

"Wait?"

"I asked Snart to wake me up early so that I wouldn't be here when the movers arrived," Barry says. He stares at the empty apartment. "I didn't realize they'd be so - thorough."

Though, really, he should've. Snart had said something about supervising personally.

"Movers?" Mick asks.

"Yeah," Barry says. "We're moving in together."

"We _are_?"

"...Snart said it was your idea?" Barry suggests, throwing Snart under the bus right off the bat. 

Mick considers it for a moment, then shrugs. "Good."

Barry can't help but hide a smile. Mick had been not-so-subtly stressing about asking Barry to move in for weeks, now, to the point where he was starting noticeably more fires than normal, so Barry had taken matters into his own hands, including maligning a (entirely willing) Snart for suggesting it. 

Mick really did prefer major life events to have already happened, rather than looking forward to them.

Barry fully expects to be informed of his own wedding when he gets the first RSVP card back, honestly.

Barry rather likes it. Speedsters love surprises. 

Joe had expressed some concern about it - he'd never quite approved of Mick or let go of his hopes that Barry and Iris would marry to live in platonic bliss like they'd planned when they were five, but he'd mostly let it go. He had, however, commented that it was 'weird' that they were planning on letting Snart room with them.

Barry pointed out that it was a common living arrangement in most of the globe, albeit usually with unattached family, and God knows that Snart is Mick's family as much as anyone still living. 

Joe had asked if he was worried that any kids they adopted would get teased about it.

Barry told Joe he was _way_ overthinking things, given that they were nowhere near the kids discussion, much less the practical issues involved with having a kid who would have a supervillain dad and a superhero dad - honestly, having a supervillain (anti-hero?) uncle living upstairs would hardly register on the kid's weird spectrum. Besides, having Snart around meant Mick still had his support system and someone to discuss his villainous outings with. And Barry likes Snart. He's funny and hilariously sneaky.

Though speaking of which -

"What _was_ Snart doing with Iris earlier?" he asks, trailing Mick back to the car to head over to Mick's place (also Snart's, now also Barry's). "Now that we're not surrounded by cops."

"They're thinking of opening a PR firm."

"What?"

"Hero and villain image management."

"You're _joking_."

"Just as a part time thing. You know Snart's still got those spymaster itches from Doomworld."

"You give a man a worldwide network of informers, he doesn't give it up easy," Barry agrees, bemused. "Really? Is there enough of a market for that?"

"They're branching out. Kara and her cousin have expressed some interest in figuring out how to separate their brands some."

"Their first clients are in _another universe_?"

Mick shrugs.

"Well, if it makes them happy," Barry says after a moment. "Are they coming for dinner?"

Iris has been by practically every day, often along with Eddie, often not when he's working late. They live just down the street in a building Snart may or may not own through a number of shell companies.

Barry's trying to figure out when exactly to tell Iris that the 'once in a lifetime scoop' apartment was priced that way for a reason, and that reason being Snart's inability to let go of anyone he liked, _ever_. 

Eventually.

He’ll tell them eventually.

(He’s pretty sure Eddie already suspects.)

Man, if Snart goes evil again next Doomworld, Barry's expecting to be collared and leashed to Mick with Iris and Eddie in the next opulent luxurious room next door. Possibly locked into a Jacuzzi and not allowed to come out for hours and hours. 

...that doesn't sound so bad, actually. Barry will have to suggest it. 

"Yeah," Mick says. "I was thinking of making chicken."

"Which chicken, the breaded-with-aromatics or the divine-sauce-from-heaven?"

"...sauced."

"Lemon, tomato, or other?"

"Lemon," Mick says, starting to sound suspicious. "You getting bored, Red?"

"No, just making menu plans for your eventual restaurant."

"I'm not gonna own a restaurant. No matter what you and Snart say."

Barry grins and heads inside to drop off his stuff. Everything he owns fits in just right alongside Mick's, it's like he was always there.

Just right.


	5. Historical (short epilogue)

"Snart's gonna kill them," Mick says.

"Probably," Barry agrees, peeping out the bungalow window again. "He was so concerned about us having a good honeymoon - I don't think there's a single person in Central he hasn't threatened or blackmailed or bribed to behave while we're gone."

"He's superstitious," Mick says with a shrug. "Wants us to start as we mean to carry on."

Barry can't help a smile. "A few days spent in bed followed by dealing with a ridiculous can't-believe-this-is-happening crisis?"

Mick considers for a second. "Yeah," he says. "Sounds about right for us."

Another squad of authentic Roman legionnaires march by.

"I suppose there's no chance of staying in here and enjoying our pre-paid Aruba vacation properly," Barry grumbles. 

"I'm up for it if you are," Mick says. His hand slides down Barry's back very pointedly.

"Some superhero I'd be if I did," Barry sighs. "Though it's a _very_ tempting idea. How did the Legends even manage to bring the Lost Roman Legion to _Aruba_ anyway?"

"No idea," Mick says shortly. "We don't really talk anymore."

Barry winces. Sore spot, right. He'd thought that maybe things were a bit better now, ever since Jax and Stein came over for dinner that one time, made clear that they were over anything that happened and apologizing for any behavior they might've contributed to Mick's isolation and depression while he was on board with them (Snart had clearly read them the riot act first - Barry snuck him two pieces of cake as reward). But no, the rest of the Legends had maintained that in their view, Mick was a traitor and forever untrustworthy for his actions in causing Doomworld, even though Barry knew for a fact that he'd single-handedly _rescued_ all of them in Doomworld.

Even though Barry had gotten to see some of the video clips of the Legends' so-called 'teasing' behavior, the stuff the Legion had shown to the Doomworld version of Len to convince him he had to join up with the Legion for Mick's sake. Barry's still steamed about that.

Not as steamed as Snart, though. Barry just politely rejected their help at the next few team-ups, asking them to go the hell back to kicking puppies or whatever their mission statement was (they hadn't liked that); while Snart preferred more _active_ forms of sabotage.

Gideon is really very fond of Snart, as it happens. 

That being said, Barry knows that Mick still holds out a bit of hope that the rest of them will get over themselves (Ray had shown some signs of it, last time, looking particularly hurt and upset), so maybe this detour isn't all bad.

"We'll find them and kick their asses till they tell us what's up," Barry decides, ignoring the phantom twinge in his leg that happened in every alternate universe he ended up in now. His therapist - Mick had insisted he go and recommended one known for her discretion - told him it was a perfectly reasonable psychosomatic response to a traumatic experience, and nothing to be worried about. 

"Assuming Snart didn't get there first," Mick agrees.

Barry snickers. "I can see it now," he says. "The Legends crew, innocently trying to find a solution to the problem of Romans in Aruba, and suddenly, rising up like a phantom of darkness, Snart appears - wreathed by flame -"

"He's more of a 'wreathed by icy winds' kinda guy. Possibly ice dragons."

"- and he stalks out of the shadows going, 'How _dare_ you ruin their honeymoon! Do you _know_ how _long_ it took me to convince them to go?'" Barry does his best angry Snart drawl.

Mick laughs. "How would he even get here? He's back in Central."

"Dunno. Teleported by sheer rage?"

"Him and Iris both."

"No kidding." Barry looks out of the window again. "Coast's clear. Let's go."

Mick grabs his heat gun and Barry quick-changes into the suit, and they're off.

It takes a bit of exploration, but in the end they find the Waverider in beach by the lagoon, next to the stand that served margaritas. 

The door is open.

Mick and Barry exchange frowns, and head up the ramp.

Inside, they hear –

"-how _long_ it took me to convince them to go?!" Snart is shouting. "Barry's a superhero workaholic and Mick's idea of a vacation is the local pub! I had to practically hold them at gunpoint before they agreed to head out!"

Mick and Barry look at each other again.

Then they both burst out laughing.


End file.
